


That I Might Linger at Your Door

by bardbarianrage



Category: Boku to Maoh | Okage: Shadow King
Genre: Epros vs. The World, F/M, M/M, Obscure fandom appreciation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bardbarianrage/pseuds/bardbarianrage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Epros waxes poetic and a ménage à trois is implied for Great Justice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That I Might Linger at Your Door

A look.

One look.

A glance can bespeak more than a ballad hundreds of meters long. There is a sultry light play in Linda’s large, wide eyes. In Kisling, it is the curious off-white of nails that draw over the crinkling pages of his tomes, expressly grown to be harvested for insidious purposes only Kisling himself knows- though they’ve all got them, less than noble ambitions. It isn’t simply the asinine professor.

Rosaline’s rosiness, the healthy glowing hue of her pink flesh is just as enticing as the Princesses’s curled brown locks. There is even grace in Bull’s musculature, which is clunkier than a novice limerick but in the throes of physical strain can be more poetic than a well-hersed verse. The ringmaster’s rotund form encases an alluringly jolly soul. Souls too, the phantasms of the departed are represented well by the quatrain silliness of the Shadow King’s butler. Beautiful, these creatures, every one of them.

Epros passes his musings over each stanza in turn and chides himself as, per usual, his mind slips between the lines of the remarkable blackness of Ari’s presence and the expressiveness of Linda’s mouth and cannot seem to become unstuck. Stanley Trinidad Whathavehim is dandily appealing with his annoying commentary and absurdly trimmed collar but again and again, the King along with all the others, pale in the luminance of Epros’s fascination with song and sword. From his stance in the teem of pop idol admirers to the quiet little room in Temel where an eternally unrecognized hero sleeps. Back and forth. A look. A glance. He watches the muses that strike him deep at his core.

Ari is a sonnet, he thinks, when he turns a cheek to his cold, cupped palm.

Linda is an ode when she sings his praises into the microphone.

They, together, make him contemplate the poetry of his own existence.

It is a modest little thing, despite the abrasive nature of his flouncing and flirting. A haiku, possibly.

An admiration

for all beings beautiful

but love meant for two.

He can’t choose. He never could. Phantoms aren’t meant to be decisive.

They’re meant to linger. Like a stare, like a glance.

Like a gaze.


End file.
